


Always Darkest

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-30
Updated: 2009-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck's not in charge of the world-saving, Chuck just writes it down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Darkest

  
This is how it ends.

Chuck's been drinking since Dean and Castiel left just after lunch.

Not obsessively, not dramatically like he's in a tragic nineteenth century novel, he's doing it slow and steady, because it's the end of the world and there's no rush. He made sure there was enough beer, enough of everything, in case of emergencies. It's amazing how many emergencies tend to turn up once the Winchesters knew your name.

"I just got all the furniture straight again as well," Chuck complains quietly to himself. Though really he'd just cleaned the worst of the blood off of the walls, picked up all the teeth and little shards of bone. Because there was nothing like an angel exploding in your living room to screw up the decor. He's not going to pretend he isn't a little bit relieved that he'll never have to do that again though.

He turns round, Sam's not listening to him, he's folded over on Chuck's couch, beer left to leave condensation rings on the table, and not drinking alone makes a nice change.

Sam's still reading the pages. The pages Chuck typed up at three in the morning.

He's read them enough times himself, he doesn't want to look at them any more. He knows what's in them, knows how it ends.

Fire.

Blood.

Darkness.

It cuts off in the middle of a paragraph, it just ends. He didn't see anything after that, no Winchesters, no last fight, no world. Everything after tomorrow night just fades to black.

Sam's been reading it like he thinks he can change it, like he thinks he can find something, _anything,_ to explain the nothing.

Dean and Castiel have hurtled off into the night to check out ground zero.

Chuck's not in charge of the world-saving, Chuck just writes it down.

He just wishes his brain understood that and stopped labouring under the mistaken impression that it was all his fault. He thinks that's a really good reason for him to be drinking. That maybe if he drinks between now and the end then he won't even notice it when it comes. That he won't have to feel fucking guilty about it.

He wanders back over to the couch, and very carefully pulls the pages out of Sam's hands. Sam surprises him by letting him.

The more Chuck sees Sam the more he thinks he's had him completely wrong, in the books, the way he's always written him. There's something complicated and strange about the younger Winchester that he's never quite been able to grasp. He's just as fierce, just as heavy in a room as Dean. He's also more expressive than Chuck expects. More willing to let people see what he's feeling.

Chuck thinks he might fix that-

Might have fixed that, if he'd written anything else.

He folds the pages in half, doesn't even glance at them.

"It doesn't help, trust me, it really doesn't help," Chuck says carefully.

Castiel hadn't even been surprised, apparently the portents and omens and whatever the hell else angels paid attention too, were pretty much saying the earth was doomed too. Only he took it well, in that stoic angelic way where he doesn't really react to it at all.

Dean pretty much reacted to it for him.

Chuck dumps the paper on the table, lets it slide in among the paperbacks and bills and all the rest of the general mess that is his life.

 _Was_ his life.

Sam lifts his own bottle, wet in his hand now, and drinks half of it. There's a weight more of them by the leg of the table, dumped there by Chuck while Sam was reading the prophecy of doom for the third? fifth? time.

There's also a jumble of empty ones littering the room like they've wandered their way round it looking for answers. When really Sam just can't stay still for five minutes. Chuck knows the feeling.

Sam's still now though. Even if he is still looking at the table, at the piles of paper. If he picks up the folded sheets again Chuck thinks he may actually tear the damn thing into pieces. He doesn't think his nerves will take it.

But instead Sam drags a picture out from under all the typed paper and tattered envelopes. A picture, Chuck vaguely remembers getting weeks ago.

"That was a sketch for the next book cover," Chuck tells him.

"It's kind of..." Sam pulls a face, expressive, he's a lot more expressive and Chuck feels kind of bad for short-changing him. While at the same time he thinks maybe Sam deserves to be someone different, something better than what Chuck put on a page.

"It's awful, " Chuck tells him and swallows a mouthful of his beer. "I don't really do anything about the artwork, I just go with whatever they think fits best." He shrugs, gestures with a hand in a 'that's what I get,' sort of way. Apologetic and unsurprised.

"They think this fits the story? They think this is what we look like?" The corner of Sam's mouth flicks up, a sort of horrified search for a negative.

Chuck scratches the edge of his cheek. Because he thinks maybe yeah, he thinks maybe that is what they think the Winchesters look like. But he's fairly sure, judging by the confused, irritated and unhappy look Sam’s currently wearing that telling him that probably isn't the best plan.

He shrugs instead.

"I don't really tell them anything. I just let them do their thing. People seem to like it."

"I look like a giant," Sam accuses.

"You kind of are a giant," Chuck admits honestly, tipping his bottle in his direction. "I'm surprised you hadn't noticed."

Sam throws him a look which is clearly dubious of any relationship between his tallness and the obvious mutant on the cover.

Chuck shrugs.

"I didn't exaggerate anything, it's not my fault they think you're six and a half feet tall."

"That would be six foot six, I'm not six foot six," Sam says flatly. Something that's either irritation or hurt under the words. Maybe Sam isn't so comfortable with his huge giantness. Or maybe Dean's just the only one allowed to tease him for it.

"You're six foot four and a quarter of an inch, I know because I wrote you that way."

The rest of it's just hair.

But he doesn't say that.

Sam makes a face, like he's not willing to dispute the fact that he actually is six foot four and a quarter of an inch. He can't let the rest of the sentence go though.

"I think I was born that way a little bit before that." Sam sounds peeved, which is his own fault for not being a fictional character. Though granted Chuck wouldn't wish being a fictional character on anyone-

Though considering what the Winchester's lives were like sometimes maybe they'd prefer to be fictional characters?

"Well not born, obviously," Sam adds. "I didn't spring fully grown from anyone's head."

"Look who has classical knowledge," Chuck says through a grin, and he thinks maybe it's the first time he's smiled since he found out the world was going to end.

Hell, maybe it was a while before that too.

Sam does that unattractive scrunched up face at him that's amused but still pretending to be irritated. Chuck's fairly sure he never wrote that, and it's reassuring somehow now.

"Look, you don't have to stick around all night," Chuck reminds him. Because it's true, it's the last night of the world, Sam Winchester should probably be somewhere else, researching a way to save it at the last minute.

Or balls deep in some hot girl that needs saving.

Something epic.

He looks lost sitting on Chuck's couch drinking cheap beer.

"I'm not going anywhere, so if you wanted to go somewhere, see a girl or something." Chuck gestures with the bottle he's holding then lifts a shoulder, not quite a shrug.

Sam pulls a face at him from the other end of the couch, something that appreciates it but looks unhappy all the same.

"I don't really know anyone any more," Sam admits, clearly awkwardly. "And we, ah, don't really keep in touch with anyone we help."

He leaves the rest unsaid, the part where he thinks everyone who doesn't get the hell away from the Winchesters, as quick as they can, always end up dead in the end. Sometimes even when they try, even when they run. You touch their lives, no matter how briefly and things tend to find you.

It's really not surprising how fucked up they both are.

Sam tips his bottle up, fills his mouth and swallows, then picks at the label, sighs out a breath.

"And when I sleep with girls they mostly seem to end up dead," Sam adds almost bitterly.

Chuck winces, because yeah he'd noticed that trend, he remembers finding it amusing at the time- not so much now though.

"So I thought I'd just...wait."

Chuck shoves his own bottle further onto the table so he doesn't knock it off, slides onto the couch too.

"I just thought maybe, if it's the end-" It's always the end though isn't it. It's felt like the end for months. It's so damn tempting to ask if this time they were sure. If this was definitely the last one. "You'd want to be somewhere."

"Maybe I would, if I had somewhere to be." Sam shrugs, then looks at him. "So I'm kind of stuck waiting for them, and you're kind of stuck waiting for them too."

"It's certainly-" Chuck tries to think of a good word. "Interesting."

Sam huffs like he knows that for the bullshit that it is, shifts one of his impossibly long legs and sets his beer on the table.

When he leans back he's closer than he was before, and he looks almost curious. Like maybe he wants to know why Chuck's letting them all hang around, letting them live out their end of the world party at his house.

But no, maybe that's not it.

Chuck's close enough to catch the way Sam's eyes drop, for just a second, to his mouth, like he's thinking about it. Which threatens to turn his whole world inside out because Chuck would have put money on Sam Winchester not looking like he's seriously thinking about what it would be like to kiss him.

But then Sam moves, a slow but very obvious movement. Sam seems to catch himself on the sway forward and stops, caught in some strange half-movement that he clearly has no idea how to get out of. So close to looking caught that it's almost funny.

Chuck's fairly sure he isn't anywhere close to drunk enough to be doing this. But he makes a noise, a quick murmur that doesn't seem to mean anything at all, and he meet Sam in the middle.

It starts as more of a test in pressure than an actual kiss.

But maybe it's not entirely a bad idea, because Sam's not pulling away, not stopping him from doing- whatever the hell he's doing, finding out the shape of Sam's mouth, when it's soft and surprised but not exactly resisting.

Then not resisting at all.

Sam's kissing him back. It's slightly awkward, as if they're both trying to work out what exactly they're supposed to do without a girl, until Chuck just gives in, says _fuck it_ , and opens his mouth to Sam's tongue. It's not graceful at all and Sam's an inch away from desperate but Chuck ends up with a hand round the back of his neck, and suddenly it's messy and unexpected and really good.

But then Sam's pulling away, frowning slightly.

"What?" Chuck asks, because he's feeling pretty stupid and that's probably better than just shoving a hand in Sam's hair and trying to get him to kiss him again.

"I've never kissed anyone with a beard," Sam complains, almost apologetically. "It's kind of strange."

"You do realise you're almost twice my size right," Chuck counters. "And a _man_ , if anyone should be weirded out it's me."

"You make it sound like I do stuff like this all the time," Sam says pointedly, when Chuck knows for a fact that he doesn't. "Because I really don't. I just-" he stops, like he's not quite sure what it is he does, what it is he wants to do. He looks irritated by his own indecision.

Chuck's left looking at Sam's mouth, because he's totally down with kissing him again. But now there's a strange pause and he's not sure if it's awkward or not, or if he's even allowed. Maybe Sam's already decided that once is enough, that it's too different, too weird. Chuck can understand that, hell it is weird, it's hands down one of the weirdest things he's ever done. The weirdest thing he's ever done sober. So he's fully prepared to sink back into the space he left in the sofa and pretend it never happened.

Until Sam says 'fuck it' quietly under his breath and pulls him back in by the collar of his shirt. Sam's mouth is hot and it tastes like alcohol and impatience and Chuck decides he kind of likes it, even though this is clearly messed up in ways only the impending apocalypse can account for.

Impending apocalypses have a lot to answer for. But they let you get away with some crazy shit.

Then Sam's shifting just a little, reaching for more space and Chuck slides against him a little harder than before, hand groping awkwardly for some sort of acceptable place to hold on when you're kissing another guy.

He ends up pressed into the length of him and he discovers something-

Sam's hard, not just half but _all the way_. A solid line of heat under Chuck's thigh.

He tenses up, more surprise than anything else, and Sam pulls away, stares at him, then clears his throat in one loud noise.

"It's been a while," Sam explains, he looks awkward. Like kissing is ok but inappropriate erections in this situation are still weird.

Chuck knows the last person Sam had sex with, because he wrote about it.

He wrote about it when they killed her too.

Which is a whole lot of awkwardness that he really isn't going to bring up.

His brain's kind of distracted in a whole other way, and he wonders if he should- if Sam even wants him to-

His hand is somewhere on the curve of Sam's waist, smallest finger laid over the sharp edge of his hipbone where his jeans have slid down, and Chuck's not entirely sure he wants to. Because kissing is some sort of messed up experiment you can get away with while drunk. Anything else is....

He moves his hand, just a little, fingertips digging into denim.

"Can I-" Chuck's not entirely sure how you ask these things. It comes out kind of awkward and random. But Sam makes a quiet noise in his throat like he doesn't mind at all, like it's pretty much the best idea ever. Sam wants, Sam pretty clearly wants, badly.

"Yeah." It's a burst of air more than a word, and Sam looks at him through the strands of hair that have fallen down, eyes wide and dark and that could be lust or it could just be alcohol.

Chuck's not even close to drunk, not that sort of drunk, and he's fairly sure Sam isn't either. On a body weight ratio Sam would obviously be winning by a mile, but Chuck almost definitely has more experience being drunk. Or maybe just more experience doing stupid fucking things while he's drunk.

It's slightly weird to not even have that excuse.

He moves his hand over, pulls the warm tail of leather away from its buckle, then pops the button on Sam's jeans and slides the zipper down. It's weirdly loud, crazily loud in the quiet of the room.

But Sam's quick inhale when Chuck's knuckles brush against the hard edge of him, sounds louder still.

Sam wants him to touch him.

And yeah, it really hasn't slipped his notice that this is Sam Winchester.

 _Sam Winchester_

It's possible that there might be a little bit of hero worship going on here, just a little, and he's aware enough to admit it, which is enough to explain why his heart's pounding the way it usually does when he's got his hands on some exceptionally hot, or creatively dirty, woman.

But yeah, Sam's really not even close to female.

So different enough to jar when he pushes his hand inside Sam's boxer shorts, finds his fingers sliding over the soft-hard length of Sam's dick.

Sam makes a noise deep in his throat, hoarse and only half there, and there's the faintest push into his palm, greedy and unexpected. Then when Chuck does nothing but shift up and dig his hand a little deeper, he swears and shoves at the material of his jeans and shorts pushes them both down out of the way and Chuck makes a noise, some sort of noise.

Sam's dick is heavy and thick in his hand. The type that always looks messy and obscene when people go down on them in porn. And, _Jesus Christ_ , that's a thought that sends something hot and shivery all the way down his spine that he absolutely didn't expect.

It's kind of surreal, and just a little bit terrifying, but he's fairly sure he's going to try it anyway. Because he's never done it before, and he'll definitely never get the chance to do it again.

Though Sam Winchester is not a small man, in any sense of the word. There's no way he's going to be able to do this without his hand wrapped round the base of it. He's not entirely sure he won't make a mess of it anyway.

He folds it there anyway, other hand pushing at the waistband of Sam's boxer shorts and jeans, dragging them to his thighs, Sam's impossibly long leg stretched along and off the edge of the couch. Sam leans in, catches the back of his neck and kisses him, surprised and hard. He's breathing quick, soft and hot and he's pushing on reflex every time Chuck's hand tightens. Greedy and maybe a little embarrassed about it, like he doesn't think he deserves the attention, like he's trying not to be desperate.

Sam swears under his breath and goes completely still when Chuck slides back down the couch, pushes his thigh to the side and leans in.

It's warm in his mouth, heavy and strange against his tongue, and he's not quite sure why he never worked out that there'd be so _much_ of it.

"Oh god." Sam's hips twitch sharply- and then freeze.

His hand moves instead, huge and warm on the back of Chuck's head, fingers dragging briefly through his hair before sliding down to the back of his neck, round to catch his jaw, it moves restlessly against his skin, like it wants nothing more than to pull him down onto the length of him.

But instead he just tenses his thighs, swears in the silence.

His thumb trails through the hair on his cheek every time Chuck slides down, lips not quite meeting his curled fingers. Then Sam's hand will still and his thighs will tense again, hips twitching with the urge to move, to push, and Chuck appreciates the self-control because he's still working out exactly when you're supposed to breathe and exactly how much he can take without it all becoming awkward and wet and messy.

Though, judging by the whistling noises Sam's breath is making, he doesn't mind wet and messy so much.

Until even Sam's control breaks down the middle, and his thumb is rubbing at the wet length of his own dick, the stretched curve of Chuck's lower lip. He's groaning, low in his throat, and pushing carefully, slowly with his hips. Which leaves no doubt at all that Chuck's first attempt at this is good enough, more than good enough, to get Sam off.

"Chuck," Sam warns, and he's fairly sure that if he doesn't move Sam's going to come in his mouth. It occurs to him that that's kind of the point, and though Chuck's fairly sure he's still weirded out by the whole thing he's also- he kind of wants to know what it's like. What Sam will do if he just keeps going, quick presses of tongue and the tightness of his mouth dragging him all the way over. That he might as well since it's left his jaw aching and uncomfortable and strange as hell.

Sam's hand tugs at his hair.

"Chuck if you don't-"

Chuck smacks his hand away and Sam gets it, he fucking gets it, loose groan sliding out of him and his hand slithers back into Chuck's hair, tight now, and the quick pushes of his hips are harder, greedier. For some unfathomable reason that's the hottest thing ever. It leaves Chuck aching in his jeans, crushed where he's hunched over uncomfortably and for a few seconds he just lets Sam shove, quick and rough, into his mouth.

His brain briefly whites out at how obscene that is.

But then Sam's hand spasms in his hair, hips pushing up, and his whole body goes taut.

Chuck's mouth is full, a hot-bitter push of liquid, and he swallows on reflex, which drags a shaky groan out of Sam. It's less easy than it's always looked at the end, because he can feel the trail of it across his fingers, sliding over his own spit.

Sam's hand relaxes, falls away.

Then Chuck's just breathing, lips numb, jaw aching and Sam's cock slipping out of his mouth, wet and warm and shiny and he ends up with a hand on Sam's knee, still twitching gently under his jeans, holding himself up.

"I can't believe you let me...." Sam's voice trails off, the end of warm and stunned.

Chuck's jaw hurts, really, it feels like he's been doing something he wasn't biologically designed for.

He's going to be more sympathetic next time someone goes down on him.

"Were you drunk enough for that?" Sam asks cautiously, and Chuck's seriously tempted to laugh at him for drastically underestimating what qualifies as drunk for him.

But he's too busy having a small sexuality crisis.

"Ask me when I can feel my cheekbones again," he complains instead. His mouth tastes bitter and strange and not at all pleasant. But he's pretty much a functioning alcoholic, so he's used to that.

Though he can only ignore the weight of his own fierce needy insistence for so long, and Sam's not helping, sprawled on his couch, open and mostly undone, and he's nothing like what Chuck normally finds attractive. He's all muscle and angles and hard lines. All length and warm skin and the taste of him still heavy against the flat of his tongue.

Chuck wants him so hard he can go with being confused later and _doing_ something now.

He pushes Sam against the arm of the couch, crawls up him, shoving his shirt up as he goes and Sam lets him, goes wherever his hands push, watching him through his hair.

"Just stay there," Chuck says fiercely, and Sam makes a breathless agreeable noise, shifts his leg to one side, then reaches out, snags the waist of Chuck's jeans, long fingers pulling open the button and zipper. Chuck drags a breath when Sam's fingertips slide across the head of his dick in a not-entirely-accidental movement.

He breathes half-relief when Sam pulls at the edges, slides them over his hips, then wraps a hand round the back of his neck and pulls him down and in.

Every bare inch of Sam is warmer than it has any right to be, soft where Chuck digs his hands in and he can't resist an instant of greedy bravery, fisting a hand in Sam's messy hair, tugging it down far enough so he can kiss him again. He's hissing nonsense into his mouth that makes Sam smile, though he can't for the life of him remember what he says.

Before he has to pull away to breathe, to _push._

He ruts into Sam's smooth, taut stomach while Sam make quiet little noises and half bitten off words, like he can't quite believe it. His eyes slide up, then down and that shouldn't be half as filthy as it is. But the fact that he's _watching-_

Sam's hand reaches up and pushes Chuck's hair back off of his face, the other catches the edge of his waist, entirely bare where his own jeans have slipped down, and holds him there, against the heavier, longer length of his own body and Chuck exhales, sharp and unexpected, shudders to a stop and comes against his skin. It's a delicious tug of sensation that leaves him balanced on shaky hands, and Sam makes a surprised noise that trails off into something that's warmer, and ends on a shaky breath.

"Chuck," Sam says quietly, and Chuck thinks he can hear everything Sam doesn't say, all the surprised, confused uncertainty. So he sways back, dragging his jeans up as he goes and there's no place on the couch which doesn't also contain part of Sam, so he goes with it, finds himself somewhere that doesn’t involve leg bones.

"Jesus," he says quietly.

Sam grunts like he agrees, though Chuck doesn't think he knows quite what he's agreeing to. Then he strips his shirt off and wipes it over his stomach before tossing it off the end of the couch.

Chuck thinks about moving but Sam really has left him nowhere else to go, jeans pulled lazily back over his hips and so Chuck doesn't even try, he just eases back against the length of his arm and the side of his chest.

Sam's fingers dangle loosely against the bare skin of Chuck's arm, in a way that seems almost intentional.

"What time will they get back?" Chuck asks, for want of something, anything, to say

"Late morning," Sam says sluggishly.

Late morning, which is...hours away. It's not even early morning yet.

Chuck tips his head back on the couch.

Sam's making quiet, lazy shifting movements beside him, chest moving with every breath. Chuck thinks he should probably get off of him, but he's warm and he's had just enough to drink for the looseness of his limbs to want to lull him into sleep, so he doesn't resist.

  
~~~

  
Sam Winchester is heavy, heavy in a way girl's just _aren't_. Chuck discovers as much at four in the morning. Currently Sam's being heavy across Chuck's chest and the length of one leg. What feels like every ounce of his weight draped across him.

"You're heavy," he complains into the cushions without opening his eyes.

Sam murmurs something completely unintelligible and moves over a little, when Chuck shifts over he presses into his back instead of his chest. Chuck really has no choice but to put up with it, it's either that or fall off the couch. Though he's not going to complain too hard.

It's officially the end of days. The last morning ever, it makes it even weirder that it's so early. He stares at the window, all cracks of darkness where the moon's lining it all out, only half distracted by the rush of air where Sam's breathing into his ear, but it's not quite enough to lull him back to sleep.

Sam wakes up instead. He can feel him moving in his hair, can feel the quiet sigh, the way his hand twitches where it's folded round Chuck's waist, like it's not sure if it should stay where it is, or draw attention to itself by moving. In the end he leaves it there, and the next time he shifts he presses, stiff and warm, against the curve of Chuck's thigh.

It's surprisingly easy to tell what he's thinking.

"You're not fucking me," Chuck tells him, surprised at how easily it comes out. "I've had that in my mouth, I know exactly how big it is."

"Ok," Sam says quietly, and Chuck kind of wants to laugh at how easily Sam does as he's told, but he's comfortable, and Sam's warmer than the rest of the room.

"I just thought-"

"The end of the world isn't an excuse," Chuck adds, half-amused, just in case.

"I wasn't going to plead 'the apocalypse' as a reason to have sex," Sam says, his own amusement is painted over something that's harder, more complicated, more hopeless, but he's trying. Quiet and soft in the darkness. The tension from before, the 'we've just had some sort of sex while using the apocalypse as an excuse' tension has gone. Chuck's not entirely sure where. It's still true, but somehow Sam is now just the weight of another person at his back, shifting and grumbling, faint trace of sweat and shampoo and leather clinging to his skin. Which is different, not bad necessarily, just different.

"Can I just-" Sam doesn't finish, but his hand is sliding back and forth where Chuck's shirt has rucked up and left his waist and the small of his back bare.

He's not entirely sure what Sam's asking, but he kind of likes the breathless, slightly urgent quality of the words. He doesn't think he's ever managed to drag that sound out of anyone.

"Sure," he says quietly, and the way Sam breathes relief and doesn't stop touching him, he thinks maybe that means something. Chuck's not entirely sure when they decided they could do this, where between the kissing and the end of the world it became ok to touch like this.

Chuck wonders if he's allowed to touch again too?

He's not entirely sure whether it makes him gay because he wants to.

Though probably not gay, probably bisexual.

Is he too old to suddenly be bisexual?

Sam grunts something against his neck, hands sliding over Chuck's waist in a shiver of sensation.

And he decides it doesn't really matter what he thinks.

There's a lazy curiosity to his touches, as if Sam's found himself with something new and he's trying to work it out, lingering where he'd normally find the curve of a waist and he seems honestly bewildered when he winds an arm round Chuck's chest and finds nothing but flat breastbone and muscle, thumb lingering curiously where he finds a nipple when Chuck takes a quick startled breath. So maybe Chuck's not the only one have a bisexual freak-out on the last day of the world.

Maybe they can have one together.

Sam pushes his shirt up at the back, drags it over his head and Chuck takes a moment to slither his arms free, let it drop and get lost somewhere underneath them, before Sam's hauling him back against his chest and he's so warm, really stupidly warm, and Sam is still hard, still pushing into the warmth of his jeans at the back, just above the line of his belt.

Which, Chuck would be lying if he said he didn't find...interesting, maybe a little hot, maybe a lot hot? But he's not quite sure if it's just that he's made Sam hard, or that he wants to- wants something else.

There's no way, absolutely no way, he's letting Sam fuck him. He doesn't care if it's technically the last day he'll ever get to live through.

He doesn't care.

He's seen Sam naked and there is no fucking way.

Sam's hand uncurls from his waist and drops, cups him through his jeans and he sucks a breath because he's half hard himself. Probably would have been hard already but he's not exactly seventeen any more.

But then his body laughs in his face, and he's not even close to half when the heel of Sam's hand presses in. He loses all his air in one go, has to catch Sam's wrist, catch it and push it down and Sam leans over, hair trailing across Chuck's ear and he thinks maybe-

Sam pulls his head round and kisses him, one hard, wet push that's mostly breath from Sam's end, and then he lets him go, one leg tangling through Chuck's, bare foot pushed against his own. Which is weirdly intimate in a way that Chuck will admit to being confused about.

"Chuck," Sam's voice is heavy in his ear, long hands sliding into Chuck's jeans, dragging them down his legs while his teeth open on the tender skin of his throat and Chuck's breath catches and then shakes out of him. Sam's hand slide back up, fingers dipping into the waistband of his boxer shorts and dragging over the skin underneath, but not trying to pull them down. Chuck thinks maybe- maybe he's about to do something stupid.

Maybe the world ending is an excuse after all.

"Just do it before I change my mind," Chuck says quietly, hoarsely, not entirely convinced he hasn't changed his mind already.

Sam makes a noise, something that sounds like it catches in his throat, and his hand tightens on Chuck's waist, holding him still while his dick presses, hot and hard, against the curve of his ass, then Sam's hissing a swearword into his hair.

"Are you sure. "

Chuck doesn't answer him, doesn't or can't? He doesn't know. He pushes Sam's hands into his shorts instead and apparently that's all Sam's needs because he drags them down his legs, pushes them off with one of his feet and then presses in, bare skin shoved into bare skin and it's not the same at all.

"I've done this with a girl," Sam says, awkwardly, uncertainly, like that will help.

"She was a demon," Chuck reminds him, carefully not pointing out that he knows because he remembers writing the sex scene and that's really not the sort of thing he wants to be thinking right now. Because he knows, he _knows_ exactly how Sam fucks. Quick and fierce and reckless and that's enough to send his skin cold and hot and shivery all at the same time. "I don't think she'd protest if things got a little rough."

"I'm not going to get rough, Chuck we don't have to do this if you don't want to," Sam says carefully and Chuck feels uncomfortably like a girl, which he's not happy about in the slightest.

Having a self-sacrificing streak that close to the end of the world must suck.

Chuck slides his arms back, finds the still undone edge of Sam's jeans and starts pointedly dragging them down at the front.

Sam bats his hand out of the way.

"Ok, just wait, ok." Sam's digging through the pocket of his jeans as he kicks them off, knee sliding over Chuck's legs when he pushes them off the couch.

The click of plastic is loud in the room and Chuck thinks maybe he manages not to flinch because yeah, theory, absolutely nothing compared to what they're actually about to do.

"Use all of it, fucking all of it, am I clear," Chuck says slowly and determinedly.

Sam makes a sound that's amused and greedy but also manages to be an affirmative.

"You want to-"

Chuck pulls one of his legs up without having to be asked.

Sam slides close enough to look a question over his shoulder.

"Let's just say there are a lot of things I let my ex-girlfriends do when I was really, really drunk," Chuck admits.

Sam laughs, laughs like no one has ever gotten him drunk and taken advantage of him. Hell they probably haven't.

That thought's cut off halfway through because Sam's two steps ahead of him.

He has large hands and that means long fingers and no matter how well he's slicked them up Chuck can feel it. One long steady push that's just a start, a strange and uncomfortable stretch that he breathes surprise over.

Sam's making shaky noises against the back of his neck, one leg thrown over Chuck's while he presses in as deep as he can go, one finger, then two, quietly intent but impatient round the edges. Chuck knows how strong he is and he doesn't think it matters much that he's not a girl. But he grunts encouragement to prove he's here, and that he's willing. And then Sam pushes and that's it, a quick stab of jagged pleasure, and Chuck makes a noises and pushes back. Sam gives in with a shiver, teeth open on the back of Chuck's neck, fingers sliding free, coming back slicker, two then three, sliding into an ache, and Chuck's pulse is so loud it hurts.

"Chuck."

"Yeah," Chuck says simply, when he's not sure he means it, but Sam breathes and presses himself in close and hot and tight, and then he's right there, slippery hard push, too slick not to slide in and that- that hurts, steady and slow and he's really not drunk enough for this.

Sam's heavy and hard and too fucking big and Chuck's fairly sure this was a bad, _really fucking bad_ , idea. But Sam makes a noise like he's an inch away from dying, sliding deeper by inches.

Chuck thinks he actually is dying because, _fuck_ , that is the most uncomfortable sensation he thinks he's ever experienced that's cruelly masquerading as sex.

But then Sam breathes his name in a way that's so fucking wrong but makes him groan out a breath and bend somehow, in some way that'll make it more comfortable.

"Wait," he demands because he needs a minute, just a minute.

"Do you want me to stop?" Sam asks carefully, and it's deep and rough like he has no breath for it, like he wants anything else in the whole world than for Chuck to say yes.

So Chuck doesn't say yes.

He has fingers dug into Sam's thigh and he's not quite sure when that happened but the muscle is impossibly tense where's he's gripping it, and he's trying to breathe and Sam is shifting round until Chuck's up on his knees and fuck if Sam isn't heavier in this position but he has more space to move, more room to breathe- and it's easier, not nicer but easier. He pushes back, just a little.

Sam whines, quiet and loose and his fingers dig bruises into Chuck's waist, into the fine skin that covers his hipbones, then slide up his back.

Sam changes the angle, slides in careful, half slick and half pressure and Chuck groans something that isn't entirely complaint and folds into it.

Sam makes a tiny noise, shifting in fractions though it's obvious that he wants to push, _needs_ to push.

So Chuck encourages it.

Steady, long pushes that grate just on the edge of pain/pleasure, never anything but a ragged mixture.

Until Chuck bends just right.

oh.

oh fuck _yes._

He groans and folds over onto his own elbows and Sam makes a surprised noise at the sudden change of angle and _shoves._

Chuck would probably complain about that but he's too busy enjoying the hell out of it, and this is going to hurt tomorrow, or later, or some other time that's not now. He'll worry about it when he's not finally, finally getting the appeal of the whole thing.

Sam's still too big to be entirely comfortable but, _god_ , that works.

It works even better when Sam's hand moves from his waist to the desperate shove of his dick, and Sam's hand is fucking huge, and still slightly slippery, and that's good, that's really, really good. Steady, drifting towards ragged and he can feel the tension in every push. He doesn't have any hands left to do anything with, he pushes back instead and the noise he gets suggests Sam appreciates it.

He leans into him, weight and sharp tension and hot flare of his breath on Chuck's back, pushes deeper and harder, but Chuck's too close to complain, too close to do anything but make random encouraging noises and try to breathe. Until Sam pushes in all the way and slams to a stop, a broken breath shuddering out of him, and he groans like he's been taken apart.

Chuck doesn't expect to feel it, not like that, and he's left breathing meaningless stunned nonsense, shoving into Sam's hand while his body tries, desperately tries, not to shake itself apart too. When he comes it's sharp and heavy and it quivers just on the edge of actual pain but it leaves him a mess, and making suspicious whimpering noises.

Sam's hand digs in hard enough to hurt on his waist, and then gradually relaxes.

He leans, briefly, into Chuck's back, trying to get his breathing under control. Then he slides free, leaves an ache inside that stays deep and hot and Chuck groans, shoves the mess of his shirt onto the floor, and then relaxes into the cushions and decides he's never, ever going to move again.

"Chuck," Sam says cautiously.

"Don't make me move," Chuck pleads, and he thinks he sounds more pitiful than he intends because Sam laughs under his breath and folds himself into the space he's left free.

Chuck's feeling magnanimous so he moves his arm far enough to give Sam more space for his giant and ungainly body.

He ends up with an arm thrown over his waist- which is weird, really incredibly weird, but Sam doesn't make him move it.

They stay that way for a long time, until the sweat cools on his back and he can't hear the heavy burst of Sam's every breath.

Chuck's not entirely sure why Sam's still here.

He thinks about asking but he's not sure he wants to deal with the answer is it's something pitying and messed up. The Winchesters are good at that after all so it wouldn't be surprising.

Apparently he's asking the question anyway though, possibly with the weirdness of his silence, or the way his fingers aren't quite still on Sam's skin.

Sam tips his head back against the arm of the couch, hair trailing over it, shoulders ridiculously wide.

"I just want to hang around someone who knows me," he offers, then adds a shrug. A loose gesture that almost feels like an apology, like Sam's the one with dubious intentions.

Chuck raises an eyebrow at him.

"I don't really know you, not really," he says quietly, mostly into the soft skin of Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah you do," Sam tells him. "You just didn't think I was real at the time."

Chuck's not really sure what to say to that.

  
~~~

  
After the darkness there's light, viciously bright, so bright that there's nothing past it.

Until it opens out, and there's blood and breathing and then _shouting_ , twisting blurs of movement and intent- and then the whole world, the whole damn world, _right there._

They're all on the edge, breathing like they've been given a reprieve, and Chuck knows them, knows them like he knows himself.

Knows who's fighting in the mud, in that glare of light that's angel-bright.

Dean-

Chuck's shoved out of sleep hard enough for the flare of sunlight that cuts the room in half to dig all the way through his eyes and leave him groaning and shoving his head sideways.

He's confused for a long second about why he can't move until the heat at his back, and wound round his chest, shakes him.

"Chuck," Sam says his name quick, short and worried like he's been repeating it for a while.

Chuck groans and tries to orient himself but he has the headache to end all fucking headaches.

"Jesus, you scared the hell out of me," Sam says thinly, and the hand he lays on the back of Chuck's neck, pushes into the damp ends of his hair, where his skin is cold with sweat. "I thought you were having some sort of fit."

Chuck groans, the world makes him dizzy and he aches like he's been thrown off a cliff, he's pretty sure half of that was the vision and half of it was thanks to Sam and his enthusiasm.

He really shouldn't have moved so fast.

"Are you ok?" Sam asks quietly, and though he's trying to speak as quietly as possible it still feels like a spike through Chuck's forehead.

"Christ, I'm really not," Chuck says quietly.

"You saw something." Sam's voice is tight, worried, but there's something else there, something quivering there like an edge of uncertain hope.

"Yeah," Chuck says simply. "It's maybe not- it's maybe not the end after all."

Pain goes through his head like a spike and he shuts his eyes for a second until the world stops greying at the edges. When he opens them again Sam's watching him, worried and messy and mostly- naked.

He looks lost.

"I'm ok," he says, because that's all he's sure of at the minute.

"Do you want to sit up?" Sam asks.

"I think probably not," Chuck says carefully and Sam Winchester- honest to fucking God- goes red and looks guilty.

"I think I really want a glass of water," Chuck admits quietly.

Sam slithers out from behind him, all long bare legs and muscle that looks ridiculously amazing in the dawn and he disappears towards the kitchen while Chuck rubs at the middle of his forehead and hurts like madness.

He's very confused.

He's still confused when Sam pushes a glass into his hand and he drinks it all in one go, it's cold and so perfect he doesn't even stop to breathe.

"I need my computer," Chuck decides and Sam's reaching over again before he's half finished talking, all tense optimism and barely contained hope and Chuck's never been the focus of anything like that before, fucking ever. He drags it out of its bag and sets it down on the cushions.

Chuck rubs his eyes.

"I can't see a damn thing," he complains.

Sam reaches forward again to the table, snags his glasses off of a slumped pile of papers and very carefully slips them onto Chuck's face.

Chuck doesn't say anything for a long moment.

Because it's not the end of the world and Sam can go off and do heroic things and call his brother and whatever else he does when he's being Sam Winchester, when Chuck's not writing about him.

Only he's not doing that, he's still sat on Chuck's couch, long fingers moving uncertainly in the ends of Chuck's hair, slow and careful, like Chuck might tell him to stop.

Chuck thinks maybe-

This is how it begins.


End file.
